


real real love

by susiecarter



Category: Gridlocked (2015)
Genre: Groping, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Undercover As Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15905073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: The thing is, Brody doesn't actually mind all that much that David won't call him back. Because he's pretty sure he can get himself sent to New York to shadow David again, if he tells everybody that's what it'll take to make a success out ofGridlocked 2.It's all part of his plan. Except for the thing where David seems to have a plan, too—and apparently also a pretty specific role in mind for Brody to play when they need to meet a CI in this one particular club.





	real real love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryontop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryontop/gifts).



> This is really only barely undercover as gay, cherryontop, because it's not much of a cover—but I hope you enjoy it anyway. ;D Your requests for this fandom are always amazing and this time was no exception, and basically I just couldn't resist! You also said you didn't mind any sort of top/bottom preferences, and, well, switching is inevitably my jam, oops.
> 
> Title from the song by Clean Bandit, because I feel in my heart that Brody listens to Clean Bandit and David rolls his eyes about it. :D

 

 

The thing is, Brody doesn't actually mind all that much that David won't call him back.

He kicks up a little fuss, yeah, because he can and because it's fun to picture David hearing about it—catching some shit for it at the station, maybe, or staring at a TV in the corner of a mini-mart somewhere and realizing too late that Brody's on it, listening to the interview while he's stuck in line and rolling his eyes. Makes Brody grin just thinking about it.

But it doesn't bother him that much. Might, if the movie had tanked. But with the box office returns shaping up the way they are, the sequel already greenlit—Brody's not going to be in the same position he was the first time around. He's not going to be hanging onto the role by a thread, trying to cut deals and make promises. He's going to be able to ask for stuff he wants to have happen; and if he tells the right person that what he really needs to make _Gridlocked 2_ work is another month in a cop car with David Hendrix in the driver's seat, then that's what he'll get.

So, yeah, he keeps calling. And yeah, maybe he still hopes one of these days David'll pick up, even if it's just to say, "Fuck off," and then hang up again.

But it's not a big deal, because he's got a royal flush up his sleeve the whole time: he's going to see David again and he knows it. And while he's waiting, he might as well leave David a couple dozen obnoxious voicemails.

 

 

He's an actor; he knows how to sell a narrative. He spends the rest of the press tour talking up what a great experience it was, the difference it made, how much it helped him really inhabit the role. With a little chaser about how it changed him as a person tacked on, because that's what it was supposed to do, and because—

And because it did. Weird, in a way, but he can't imagine getting hammered like that and jumping a paparazzo again. Not because he doesn't want to, he's never met a paparazzo he didn't want to punch in the face, but just because—because it's ridiculous, that's all. Because he knows what it's like to really have to _fight_ somebody, to know they want to kill you and not be sure you can stop them, and suddenly waving his fists at some asshole for taking a picture of him just seems stupid.

Anyway, he sells it, which is easy enough when it's basically the truth. And in the end, he doesn't even have to ask—somebody from the studio chases down David's details, runs them past his agent just to confirm they've got the right David Hendrix, everything already set in motion. No judicial diversion program, no guilty plea hanging over him. Just him, shadowing David for real, like the serious honest-to-shit actual actor Brody isn't yet but maybe wouldn't mind being when he grows up.

It gives him kind of a thrill, being back in New York. Knowing every minute is getting him closer to David. _Soon_ , he keeps thinking, _soon_ , practically fizzing with anticipation, and then finally it's goddamn well time, and he gets to walk into that familiar bullpen and hear David halfway through saying, "—the fuck do you mean, I can't leave yet?"

"Well, the thing is, you're my ride," Brody says, leaning in through the doorway of the chief's office with a smile.

And David turns around, already half out of his chair, and looks at him—and then, in one long slow deliberate gesture, lets his head tip back so he's looking at the ceiling instead. "Really," he says to it, flat.

"Just your lucky day, I guess," Brody says brightly.

And David makes a low, rumbly, insultingly skeptical sort of noise and then says, "Jesus, kill me now," and brushes past him on the way out without so much as adding on a "hi there, Brody, been a while".

But he doesn't drive off until Brody's gotten in the passenger seat of the squad car, so Brody figures he must not mind all that much.

 

 

It's good.

Scratch that—it's great. It's fucking fantastic.

Brody can admit it: trying to go back to his normal life, at least for values of normal calibrated to being Brody Walker, had fucking sucked. None of it had felt _real_ to him, after that whole thing with Korver. He'd gone through the motions of it, everything paper-thin and staged, because—because how could it all just go back to jacuzzis and limos, boom mikes and fake smiles, when he'd almost been shot in the chest? It was bullshit. Which, it had always been bullshit, but now it _felt_ like it. Except being on the actual set doing filming, anyway, because at least with that for a half-second here or there, getting knocked around by the stunt guys, it almost mattered.

And then he'd left when shooting for the day was over, lain on his enormous bed in his enormous fucking house and pressed as hard as he could into the fading bruise that bullet had put on his chest, because that was—at least that was something. At least he could feel it, then.

But being back in New York with David, jesus. He loves it, he can feel every second of it. They'd kind of started developing a routine toward the end, there, David doing his job in that take-no-shit way he had and Brody staying mostly off to one side, doing the occasional bout of running commentary from the peanut gallery. They fall into it again pretty easily, except—

Except now, David touches him more.

Or—fuck, maybe he's imagining things. Maybe it's just he's noticing it more, that's all. It doesn't have to be weird, he reassures himself. They know each other better these days, and—and David maybe got a little bit in the habit of hauling Brody around, moving Brody where he wanted Brody to be because it would take too long to ask when they were getting shot at. It makes sense that David's more comfortable just reaching out and grabbing Brody, this time around. Gripping his arm or his shoulder; pressing him back against the passenger seat of the car or the wall of some apartment building, and leaning in to tell him to stay the hell put all low and gravelly like that.

It's fine. No big.

If there is a weird part—and Brody's not saying there is—then it's not David or anything, it's—

It's how much Brody likes it. How eager he is for the steady weight of David's hand on him. The way it feels, getting shoved against something by the casual easy force David deploys without even having to think about it. Nothing dangerous about it, because David's David: knows exactly what he's doing, and he's too well-trained to use an ounce more pressure on Brody than he intends to.

Being in New York is great. Being around David again is better. And being in arm's reach, soaking up every touch and brush and chiding little shove David'll give him—that's the thing Brody's starting to think he wanted most, the thing he needed; the thing lying there alone pressing on his own bruises wasn't, no matter how hard he pushed.

 

 

He doesn't make a thing out of it. He doesn't pay attention to it, resolutely steers clear of deciding what it means—because no matter what David thinks, he _does_ know when he's asking for trouble, and this is a can of worms that probably should stay closed. This'll last as long as it lasts, as long as the studio made the arrangements for. And then it'll be over and Brody'll leave, and he'll have to make do with what he's got, wear the memories thin with repetition, unless he's lucky enough for a _Gridlocked 3_ to roll around.

He's not stupid. He's got a handle on this, and it's not going to be a problem.

Or at least that's what he tells himself. And it works, right up until David makes him stay after hours, bundles him into David's own car instead of a black-and-white, and then drives him to—

"A club?" Brody says, peering dubiously out the window. "Are you fucking with me?"

"No," David says, and gets out without saying another word. Typical.

"Hey, man, wait up," Brody says, well aware that David's not going to do it. Possibly he slows down for a second, though. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking, but either way he hasn't gotten further than the edge of the parking lot before Brody catches up. "What are you—is this an investigation? Are you going in undercover?" He stops short. He doesn't want to screw himself out of more time hanging off David, however he can get it; but he doesn't want to fuck this up for David either. "Maybe I better wait out here, dude. Somebody might recognize me—"

David angles a glance up at the sign overhead, dim neon. Brody can't even read it, because either there's letters missing or it's not English, or maybe both. And then he turns, looking back at Brody, and Jesus H. Christ, it's the longest slowest once-over Brody's ever gotten, David's stare dark and lingering and fucking burning, Brody's skin prickling up helplessly under it. Brody tries to swallow and can't pull it off, throat dry, tongue thick in his mouth.

"I think I can promise you," David says, real low, "that nobody in there is going to be looking at your face."

Brody laughs, quick and startled. "Man, I can't even tell, is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Aw, honey," David says mildly, "you don't need me to tell you you're pretty."

Brody does swallow, then. He's flirted a lot, had a lot of practice. He's pretty good at it. Sometimes he's done it with David, even, and occasionally he can almost convince himself David doesn't mind. But this time—

This time, for some reason, it feels a little more like stepping off a cliff than usual, to look at David and tilt his head, wet his lips, and say, "Everybody likes to be appreciated."

David's mouth slants, and Brody can't tell for sure whether that's good or bad before David's moving—stepping up close to him, and okay, probably it was good. "Okay," David murmurs. He settles one of those big broad hands against the small of Brody's back, warmth Brody can feel right through his jacket. "You're pretty," and he pushes Brody easily forward toward the door.

Just teasing. Delivered like a joke, the flat bland way David says things he thinks are funny. Brody tosses him a narrow-eyed glance over his shoulder—a silent _wow, thanks, asshole_ —even as he reaches for the door and pushes it open.

But the thing is, David doesn't take his hand off Brody's back.

 

 

He doesn't take it off once they get inside. Or once they sit down. Or the whole time they're waiting for the guy—some kind of confidential informant, David said, or something like that. He just moves it: from the small of Brody's back and down over his hip until it's spread across Brody's thigh instead, not even looking at Brody while he does it, without ever actually lifting it away. It's like a live wire against Brody even through these jeans, the pressure of David's fingertips a steady aching sensation like—like pressing on a bruise; and Brody has to bite down hard on a noise David probably wouldn't even be able to hear over all this pounding music.

And then David leans toward him. For one long-ass second, Brody's frozen, the breath knocked clean out of him. He's all of a sudden helplessly aware of David's body, the space it takes up, the way the solid strength of it is boxing Brody into this booth—

"Relax," David says mildly, mouth actually literally brushing Brody's ear, jesus.

Brody flattens his hands against the cool surface of the table and makes himself inhale. "Yeah, sure," he says, even though David probably can't hear it. And then, for the first time, he's actually got a grip enough to look around a little. "What, uh. What kind of club did you say this was?"

Because there are a whole lot of asses out on that dance floor getting very intently groped. And by Brody's best estimate, which admittedly is hampered a little by the shitty lighting in here, at least ninety percent of both the hands and the asses belong to dudes.

"I didn't," David's saying. "But I'm pretty sure at this point you got a guess, kid."

"Right," Brody says. "And your CI asked you to come here."

David shoots him a sideways glance, level and—and measuring, maybe, just a little bit. "Nobody," he says finally, "is going to look over here right now and think I'm a cop."

And—okay, yes, everybody can see how close he's sitting, the angle his arm's at. Everybody can guess where his hand probably is on Brody, give or take a couple inches. And David wants them to, Brody thinks dimly. David brought Brody in here and is touching him like this because he knows everybody who looks at them is going to think—

"Hey, hey," and somebody's come up to them, setting glasses on the table—fuck, that's right, the CI. Brody tries belatedly to pay attention. Squirrelly sort of dude, twitchy mouth. But apparently he bought them drinks, which is cool. "David, man, good to see you," and then the guy's looking at Brody and his eyebrows jump. "You, uh, you brought company, huh? Didn't know your taste ran—"

"Pretty?" David suggests, with a smile that shows some teeth. He squeezes Brody's thigh, shifts his hand a good inch and a half higher, and Brody doesn't know what his face is doing but it must give the guy the right idea.

"Yeah, yeah, pretty. Tough, too, if he's taking your dick on the regular. Or, hey, maybe you take his, I don't judge—"

"You said you had something for me, man," David says, mercifully cutting the guy off, and jesus, Brody needs one of those drinks.

He snags a glass and knocks it back just to give himself something else to think about, except, surprise, adding a little booze to the mix doesn't really help him keep his mind off David's fucking hand on his fucking thigh.

And David set this whole thing up. Brody is pretty; Brody is cover. So that makes it Brody's job, now, to—to be the best goddamn boytoy he can be.

To be _David's_ goddamn boytoy, and isn't that a trip? Nothing for it but to apply himself. He leans in and hangs off David's shoulder, relaxing into it, making himself look pouty and decorative and pliable. Which he's perfectly good at, with all the practice he's had; playing it up in meetings or at parties, smiling at people who fucking suck, making nice with studio execs who think he's an idiot.

But it's different this time. Different because it's David. Because of where they are—because it's working. People are looking at them, but just casually, eyes wandering, and then away. Because they fit in fine: because it looks like they're here together. Because it looks like maybe when they're done talking to Squirrelly Guy they'll buy some more drinks, and then David will drag Brody off to a back room in here somewhere and fuck him; because to all these very nice dudes playing grab-ass in here, it looks like Brody would let him—

"Sure thing, man," the squirrelly guy is saying, "no problem," and he's shaking David's hand again, because they—they're done talking already? Jesus. Brody bites the inside of his cheek, almost wanting to laugh except not really. Sure, they're done. Why wouldn't they be? David was busy doing his goddamn job, while Brody was sitting here trying not to bust the zipper on his jeans, or shove David's stupid hand between his thighs where he wants it instead of just leaving it _sitting_ there—

Fuck, he needs to get a grip. It's not a big deal. They're going to get up and get out of here. David's going to drive him back to his hotel. And then Brody's going to strip down and throw himself in the shower, and jerk off to this memory for the first of what will no doubt be a whole fucking lot of times. He can tell already that his stupid brain is itching to elaborate, to spin out wild shit where—where everybody in here wants proof they're not police. Where David does take him in the back and fuck him, holds him down and bites hard and leaves marks all over, so when they come back out it's obvious what they were doing. But tonight, he's not going to need more than what he's got: David's hand on him this way, steady and casual, like he's got every right to touch Brody any way he likes.

And they do leave, eventually. David takes his time, knocks back the other previously-ignored drink; because now he's not on-duty anymore, Brody's guessing, and they might as well let Squirrelly Guy leave first. But they get up, after another minute or so. They get up, and—

And David doesn't let go. Brody shoots him a sharp sideways look, hitching halfway through a step. David stares back at him calmly and doesn't move his hand at all—it's curled around Brody's hip, now, thumb honest-to-god tucked in under the waistband of Brody's jeans. What the hell.

"You're working this cover pretty intensely, dude," Brody says, raising his voice just far enough for David to hear and no further.

"Is that what it is," David says, giving Brody a long deliberate stare and then dropping his eyes to—shit, of course he noticed.

Brody feels his whole face flush hot. And it's easy as anything, to drop into the old familiar rut of going on the defensive. David's the one looking at Brody's dick, and if he's got a problem with it, then—

Then, Brody thinks slowly, he had like a whole fucking half-hour there to move his hand so it wasn't half an inch away from Brody's hard-on.

He already had his mouth open, ready to say something mean and shitty that didn't need saying. He closes it and looks at David more carefully for a second. And here it is again, that cliff-edge sense of teetering over something huge and scary. But since when has Brody ever made a habit of looking before he leaps?

"No, dude, that's my sidearm," he hears himself say. "But considering I followed you to New York just to get all up in your business again, I'm not sure why it would be a surprise that I'm plenty happy to see you."

For a second, standing there with David just watching him, heart in his throat, Brody's halfway to freaking out. And then the corner of David's mouth twitches, just a little, and he presses up even closer and gives Brody the barest gentle push. Toward the door, Brody realizes dimly. And yeah, okay, fair enough. Brody wants to get outside too, because suddenly it's way, way too hot in here.

 

 

David sticks close all the way to the car, hustling Brody along, and by the time he's got Brody caged up against the passenger side, pinning him there by the chest, Brody's almost laughing, gasping, giddy and disbelieving.

"You set me up," he says, stabbing an accusing finger up at David's face. "You motherfucker, you _set me up_ —"

"You complaining?" David murmurs. He holds Brody there and eases a thigh between Brody's, reaching down with his free hand and squeezing, and goddamn, Brody's not complaining _at all_.

"No," Brody gasps, letting his eyes fall shut, head tipping back against the car. "Nope, not me. Oh, fuck, David—"

"You like that," and David's voice is dipping low, smug and self-satisfied, which Brody discovers is even hotter than usual when David sounds that way because he's gripping Brody's dick through his jeans.

"Yes, jesus," and Brody gets what David's probably angling for. Something a little confrontational, a lot dirty, how easy Brody is for this and how bad he wants it. He knows what he should say. He does. And there's no reason why what slips out instead should be, "David, _yes_ , yes, I fucking love it—your hands on me, knowing you put them there, that you want me and you got me, fuck—"

He's gripping David's shoulders, squirming, shoving his hips against David's hand like he can't help it because he fucking can't. The friction is too much, denim scraping through his boxers harder than he even likes, but he can't stop; and he almost wants to open his eyes, see whatever look is on David's face, except he also kind of doesn't. That was a weird thing to say. Too much, too early. But maybe David won't really take it seriously. Maybe he'll let it slide.

And then, all at once, Brody can feel David move, pressing in with the heel of his hand until Brody's breath catches and leaning in, surrounding. His free hand skids up Brody's chest, curls around the back of his neck and squeezes, and then he says, quiet, against Brody's temple: "Good."

 

 

They don't fuck in the parking lot.

It feels to Brody like it might be a close thing, for a minute there. He does open his eyes, in the end, and the way David's looking at him is—it makes him swallow hard, dig his fingertips tighter into the muscles in David's shoulders, and David makes a weird strained noise in the back of his throat and tugs Brody toward him. But then he reaches behind Brody, and it's not to grab Brody's ass but the handle of the door.

He manhandles Brody into the car. Brody maybe makes it a little harder for him on purpose, just for the sake of the crackle right under his skin every time David grips him like that and just _maneuvers_ him where David wants him to be.

If David didn't want him getting off on that, then he shouldn't be so goddamn hot when he glares. He's got nobody to blame but himself.

Anyway. David takes the drive a satisfying number of miles over the speed limit. Brody spends most of it with his eyes squeezed shut. He makes himself press a hand against the base of his dick, trying to calm down a little, instead of just unzipping right here and rubbing one out, because—because that would probably be a little distracting, and David's driving, and the faster they get somewhere that's not a car, the better.

But _fuck_ , he wants to do it. He clenches his jaw and digs the nails of his free hand into his palm—which does help a little. At least until he starts thinking about David's teeth, about how this feels a little like David biting him would, and then he's fucked all over again.

They get stuck at a red light for so long that Brody starts to wonder whether maybe he could just do it. He's close enough, it feels like. Wouldn't take much effort to come before they get a green. Or he could suck David off right here in the driver's seat; he's not picky. He swallows hard and sneaks a glance over, and David—

David's staring at him: at his hand, at the fucking obscene portrait his splayed thighs and ferociously tented zipper are making, and Brody can feel the wet sticky head of his dick where it's trapped against his belly getting abruptly wetter and stickier.

"Green," he makes himself say. It comes out panting, breathless, and it takes a second before David blinks and looks up. But they do in fact have the fucking green at last, and Brody's pretty sure they leave some rubber on the pavement when David hits the gas.

When they get to David's, they barely even make it through the door before they're on each other. David kisses the same way he does everything, deep and steady and impossibly thorough, and Brody—Brody handles it basically the same way he handles everything else David does, namely by hanging on as hard as he can and tripping over himself to keep up.

David's the one who unzips him, in the end. Brody's barely even paying attention, finally distracted from his own greedy fucking dick by David's mouth. And then suddenly his fly's been yanked apart and his hard-on's not getting pinched by his stupid pants, the rush of cooler air against hot wet skin making Brody shiver in David's grip.

"Oh, fuck, David—"

"Easy," David's murmuring against his cheek, "I got you," and he shoves Brody backward into the closed door and slides him up it, effortless, those big hands curled around Brody's parted thighs. Brody hears himself make a helpless thready noise and wants to die a little.

Only a little, though, because fuck, it would be a shame to miss this.

It's kind of a blur, getting from there to David's creaky bed. Brody's a little too busy sucking on David's tongue, trying to grope as much of the fucking half-acre of David's chest and back as he can, working David's shirt off him in a series of impatient tugs. But he sure doesn't walk it, he knows that much. So David probably just—just lifted him, moved him, and it's only that Brody doesn't really notice until the world's tilting around them and he lands on his back with David over him.

"Jesus, that's hot," Brody blurts, and David stares down at him, all dark-eyed and unimpressed, and then cracks the tiniest sliver of a smile.

"Yeah, well. All yours," he says, low, and it sounds like—

It sounds like things he probably isn't actually trying to say, Brody reminds himself, swallowing and looking away down the line of David's chest. Because that's what's important here. David's hot and they're about to fuck. It's all good.

"Hey," David murmurs, and he even goes as far as taking a hand off Brody's ass to catch his face, tipping it up and waiting until Brody meets his eyes again. "I mean it. If I wanted to fuck somebody, I didn't have to wait eight months for you to get your ass back out here and then waste time manufacturing myself an excuse to grope you just to see if you'd go with it." He looks—he actually looks kind of awkward, Brody thinks with a dawning sense of wonder. His ears might even be getting a little red. Holy shit.

And yeah, okay, looking at it that way, maybe David's not quite as smooth an operator as Brody's been giving him credit for.

Brody's been talking a lot of shit to himself tonight. Selling himself a narrative, out of sheer fucking habit. That David didn't mean it, at first; didn't know what he was doing, hand on Brody's thigh like that. And then that he did but it was just because of the club, because it was cover. And then that he wanted to fuck, but it was probably just going to be quick and dirty—that what Brody had almost said back there, pinned to the car, couldn't be what David wanted to hear. Lots of people want to fuck Brody Walker, after all, and most of them would probably let him say whatever shit he wanted while they did it.

But maybe—maybe that's not fair. Maybe that's bullshit. Maybe Brody's been going through the motions for so long he's almost forgotten how to stop; and maybe it's about time he shut himself the hell up and started paying attention to what David's actually doing and saying instead.

"Yeah, okay, well, right back at you," Brody fumbles. "If I wanted to fuck a guy who could bench-press me—man, I didn't have to call you forty times and then come all the way back to New York and let you feel me up in a parking lot."

And David's settling again even as Brody watches, face smoothing out, gaze steadying on Brody's face. "Yeah? You telling me I'm special?"

He's kidding, teasing. He's got to be. Except it's not quite funny, and when Brody laughs, it comes out kind of strained. "Jesus, yes," he tells David, forcing it out through a throat that's suddenly aching. "Are you kidding me? You saved my fucking life, you—you changed everything." He stops and shakes his head, and he's screwing this up so bad but he doesn't even care, because it matters more to say it than to get David to finish banging him. Fuck. "Yes, man, you're fucking special."

But David doesn't recoil from Brody suddenly vomiting his stupid feelings all over the place. He just stares at Brody a little more, and then he says, kind of contemplatively, "Suddenly I'm feeling like I should have bought you dinner, here."

What a shithead. Brody laughs, helpless. "So buy me breakfast tomorrow," he offers, feeling suddenly daring; and David grins down at him and doesn't argue, just presses him down into the mattress and starts sucking on the side of his throat.

 

 

After that, it's—it's easy.

It's all easy. The way David fits between Brody's thighs, the way Brody opens up for him. Feeling David's fingers, those thick solid knuckles, moving inside of him—it makes Brody shudder and shake, head tipping back, but all that means is David can get at the base of his throat a little better, bite gentle bruises along the line of Brody's jaw.

When David finally starts pushing into him, Brody can't form words to save his life. He just gasps, because suddenly there's no air in David's entire fucking apartment. He digs his fingers into David's shoulders, clenches his thighs against David's sides, and fuck, fuck, god, it feels good. It feels _so_ good, David being all slow and inexorable and incredibly David about it. And it looks like he's enjoying himself plenty; but Brody finds he can't help thinking about making David feel good like this, too. How Brody could be the one pressing David down into the bed, maybe; how David might let him, just because he wanted to, wanted _Brody_ to—

"So that guy," Brody manages, "in the club—he know what he was talking about? You think you'd ever let me open you up like this—" and he's only halfway done, willing to spin out the dirty talk as far as David will let him; except he has to stop short and suck in a breath, because David jerks against him and sinks two or three inches deeper all at once, hands tightening on Brody's ass, and fucking hell, that's kind of an answer all on its own.

"Jesus, Brody—"

"Just curious," Brody says breathlessly, instead of an apology he won't mean at all, because shit, that felt amazing. David's control cracking even for a second, god; he has to grope down and get a hand on himself, just thinking about it. "You know, if we need something to do after breakfast."

David snorts half a laugh out his nose, which isn't a no, and then catches Brody's head in one hand, strains up and curls Brody forward to kiss him hard, and that's even less of a no. "You think I dish it out but I can't take it?"

"No, dude," Brody assures him, and then has to stop again and squeeze his eyes shut and pant for a second, god. "You—you can take all kinds of stuff, you can take whatever you want, oh, fuck."

"Damn right I can," David murmurs against his jaw, "and yes, god help me, what I want to take in this case does include your dick," and Brody's still laughing when he comes; arm around David's shoulders, shuddering through it, belonging and belonged-to: the realest he's ever felt.

 

 


End file.
